The Artist and Photographer
by yournewship
Summary: Two people. A man, a woman. Two benches, one train.


Two people. A man, a woman. Two benches, one train.

He drops his bag on the floor next to him, collapsing onto the wooden bench. Exhausted, he leans back and closes his eyes, and sinks into the symphony of sounds. He listens to the beat of hurried footsteps, to the flurry of words, jumping in and out of crowds. He listens to the squeaks of the conductor's door and to the pounding steps of the crowd. He opens his eyes. On the opposite platform, he sees a family of four. The father is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his arm around his wife, his face tilted downwards to look at her with a faint smile. The mother is laughing at something the father said, her face turned up like a sunflower. She's wearing a light purple skirt and a white tank top. They have a son, maybe 4 or 5. He's eating an ice cream cone, and has vanilla ice cream all over his face. His father kneels down, wipes the ice cream off and ruffles his mop of golden hair. They have another son, wearing a faded khaki capris and a pale yellow t-shirt. In his left hand, he clutches a red helium balloon. The man beckons to the exit, and puts his arm around his wife again, swinging the golden haired toddler onto his hip. The mother turns and beckons to the dark haired child, who is still standing where they were before. He runs to his mother, the balloon trailing behind him. The man on the bench smiles as he runs a hand through his rusty brown hair. How many days has it been since he'd had a proper night of sleep?

She looks around, her knapsack hanging off one shoulder. Her eyes dart back and forth, landing on a wooden bench. Sighing, she walks towards it and perches at the edge. Feeling the energy drain from her body, she lets out a breath as she relaxes into the wooden bench, slipping her feet out of her flip flops and massaging them. Peering down the track, she subconsciously fingers a faded scar on the base of her shoulder, when something catches her attention. On the platform is an elderly couple. He is wearing a faded button down t-shirt and dark pants, his laugh lines giving him an sage and wizened look. Clutching his arm, and peering at a well-worn map is his wife. She's wearing a light blue button down shirt and a dark skirt. Her washed out blonde hair gives a dull glow in the weak morning do speak, but seem to have an understanding of each other's thoughts. Suddenly, he leans over, and kisses her on the cheek. She looks up in surprise, but a grin blooms on her lips. The girl pulls out a sun washed sketchbook out of her pocket, along with a stubby pencil. With quick strokes and slashes, she copies the man and his wife down, a red curl spilling out behind her ear.

A bell sounds, echoing throughout the station. The woman leans over to readjust the straps to her knapsack. Still smiling about the family, he glances slightly to the side, and catches sight of her, sitting on a bench near where the family had been standing. The rising sun catches in her hair, lighting her up like a fiery halo. She's wearing an old brown shirt, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows, the shirt clinging slightly to her small figure. Her jeans are a ghost of the colour they used to be. There's an old blue knapsack, sitting silently next to her. As if sensing his eyes, the woman glances up. Across the station, a couple feet from where the couple stands, on an identical bench, she catches sight of the man. Their eyes meet, his brown ones meet her watery blue ones. He grins like a little boy catching sight of his Christmas presents. She arches her eyebrow in amusement as he winks then glances away nonchalantly. A whistle sounds. The artist allows herself one last look before the train slides into the station, cutting off her sight of the photographer.

Six months pass. The photographer shaves his head twice, and accidentally nicks himself shaving a couple times. The artist's hair grows till it reaches her shoulders. His hands growth thicker, and more calloused. Her skin darkens from the sun. His muscles are tighter, her figure seems leaner. The man unlocks the door, dust whirling around as he pushes into his apartment. A wilted plant, brown beyond recognition perches, crumbling, on the window sill. The coffee cup he drank from the morning he left still sits on the dining table, a brown stain on the side of the cup. A loud snap resounds through the empty house as he flips the switch, the light flooding the room. Running a tired hand through his stubby hair, he sighs with exhaustion, but still has a faint smile as he unpacks his bag. He's finally home.

She drops her bag the moment she passes through the door. The lock clicks into place as she drags herself into the shower, her clothes falling as she strips and steps under the steaming jets. Wincing as the hot water hits her sunburnt shoulders, her fingers massage out the dirt from her hair and the cramps in her back. Her eyes barely open, she dries herself off, pulls on a shirt and some pants and begins to dry off her hair. At the threshold of her room, she pauses when she sees a figure lying on the bed.

The faint tinkling of circus music threads its way into his dreams. He hears his brother's strong laughter, the snap of the bowstring. But a strong smell of cinnamon fills his nose. Clint Barton smiles in his sleep as Natasha crawls under the sheets, his strong arms automatically circling her waist.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

He whispers drowsily into her red curls. She laughs, and curls against his bare chest. The rising sun slips its way through the thin curtains, illuminating the room. Every photo, every portrait lights up, pictures and shots of families, couples, children. Everything they wanted, but could never have. The two assassins fall asleep, happy and content for the first time in 6 months.


End file.
